


The beginning of the world (it's ours to grasp)

by BlueFlowwer



Category: The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Battle of Bosworth Field, F/M, How Do I Tag, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I should stop tagging now, John of Gaunt is done with this shit, One Shot Collection, Other, Plantaganet AU, The Author Regrets Nothing, This is my first work, cute royal children, fuck the tudors, magnificent royal clothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:13:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8445442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueFlowwer/pseuds/BlueFlowwer
Summary: AU in which Richard III won the battle Bosworth and married Joanna of Portugalone shots collection





	1. In which John of Gaunt is truly done with this shit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FiverFive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiverFive/gifts), [MichisAccount](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MichisAccount/gifts).



John of Gaunt never wanted to see this scenario again. Richard kneels before the portable altar and begins to pray, for victory, for honour, for salvation. The ghost of his great-grandfather watches, without being able to interfere, as the man whose death might mark the ending of the Plantagenet dynasty puts his faith in the strengths of his men and of a god who perhaps have turned his grace from him. Richard crosses himself, fingers biting into the beads of his rosary, and turns towards his makeshift bed. The openings are closed and a single candle spreads a faint light over the lonely king, there is none of the royal splendour that John remembers from his father’s campaigns across France present. But Edward the fourth had not been a widowed childless king squaring off against a usurper, not that his formidable father had lacked enemies because of that, and the mess that came with having your heir dying before yourself with a child to inherit and many uncles. The duke of Lancaster had quelled under his father´s glare far too many times for his sons and grandson’s sins that he could count, unfair as it has been. John had been prepared to face his older brother Edward’s rage after his death too when he had died, but perhaps death had taken the edge of the Black Prince’s temper. Or perhaps his brother had been a conjuring sent from hell to confuse him. It had seen like an agreeable option at that time. King Richard blows the candle out and settles in his bed, a valiant attempt to get a few hours’ sleep before the day of judgement comes with the light of dawn filtering in through the tent. John can see the line of his spine twisting as Richard turns, looking for a comfortable position. They both know that just before a battle is unlikely to bring good rest. But exhaustion can be as fatal as a spear trust and that too is known. The translucent shape of England´s late queen comes to stand beside the long dead spectre of Edward’s third son. “Do you think he will get a bit of rest?” Anne Neville asks him, her worried eyes on her husband, “He always slept poorly before a battle, not that he would want to worry me with that.” she continued before John can answer her. John looks at her without seeing. Here he is again, a childless king Richard just over 30 years old, a gentle queen Anne dead at 28, a Henry aiming for the crown and a Joanna across the sea and John of Gaunt once more being the cause of it all. 86 years have passed between Flint Castle and Redmore Plains. To John it has been almost nothing and to the five kings who has ruled over this blessed island, it had been everything. Anne does not wait for answer, kneeling before Richards bed and placing her hands on his arm and heart and bows her head to pray that she would not welcome him into her arms the next day. That feels like the cruellest pleading John has ever heard and given his life that truly is something. John of Gaunt departs the dark tent to give Anne some privacy. He will watch the outcome tomorrow and regardless of who stands crowned when the warring is done, he’ll win anyway. It does not make it any better, rather makes him feel even worse that before and that tells a story of its own.


	2. In which Edward IV is also done with this shit

Edward, fourth of that name since the conquest, really wished that he had killed Thomas Stanley the very second he sees a horde of Cheshiremen swooping down on his last surviving brother. The same inhuman rage that led to the rivers running red with blood at Towton before his coronation bursts forth in his ghostly chest at Stanley’s cowardly betrayal and he roars along Richard at the men “Treason! Treason!”. The York brother’s shouts to the dead and the living alike. 

Edward reaches out for Richard to almost pull his battered brother close when the thunder of hooves and the calls that he has heard for himself suddenly rings in the air with an almost holy clarity. “YORK! YORK AND KING RICHARD!!!” The banner of the earl of Northumberland, the blue and gold of Henry motherfucking bloody Percy, crashes into Stanley’s men with a deafening sound. A new shock is the roar of John Howard who calls for men to aid their king, still in danger from the turncoats. Thomas Howard, the earl of Surrey rushes with reinforcement, bearing the white rose of York’s banner. 

Richard III will survive Redmore plains and the York king remains standing on 22 august 1485. Edward IV knows that the crown will be safe and departs to break the news to Anne, to his father and brother Edmund. It will feel good to bring good news.


	3. There is a sad ghost queen here (also Joanna's clothes are magnificent)

Anne Neville stands near the shore of Southampton, letting the water wash over her bare feet. Ships can be seen near the horizon if one were to have enough clear eyes and she knows that the royal entourage has already spotted them. Nothing is hidden to the dead however and Anne sees the banners of the House of Avis on the sails. A new queen is arriving in England and Anne’s husband won’t be a widower for any longer than a few days now. It is both a relief and a sorrow to Anne and it feels equally wrong no matter how she looks at it. She has been gone for less than a year, her son less than two and she’s already losing Richard to another woman. There will be another queen enthroned beside him, a new wedding bed and if God wills it, a son for the kingdom that Anne failed. 

Anne of Bohemia, who had been the first one to embrace her when she entered the afterlife, even before Isabel, had been a friend to open her heart to. The first queen of her own tragic king Richard and the only love of his life too had watched her crown being handed over to Isabella of Valois. Infanta Joanna is not a tiny child, but knowing your beloved husband is going to wed another is never easy. Anne Neville at least has the comfort to know that her successor is going to be of more help than a six-year-old girl. 

The ships were docking by the harbour now and murmurs ran through the royal crowd and the common people who had gathered a bit away to catch a glimpse of the new bride. Anne had not seen Joanna before even if she could have. The prospect of looking at her successor had made if feel all too real and even now Anne wants to turn away. But she doesn’t at the end.  
The new queen is clad in a deep blue brocade gown inlaid with black velvet sleeves and underskirt, a mantle lined with fur clasped across her shoulder and the very sight of her makes Anne feel like a dowdy mouse. A white coif made of delicate material covered her head and rich dark auburn hair fell past her shoulders. 

Anne had been one of the wealthiest heiresses in England, later its queen, she knew how to dress to impress and Joanna seemed to do that as well. Her jewellery, a necklace of white roses made of gold decorated with pearls and diamonds and gems on her rings told that alone. Her coif was embroidered with gold thread and stitched with pearls in the shape of tiny roses in what Anne realised to be a subtle honour of her new king’s house. She studied Joanna’s face searching for something she couldn’t name or worse to dislike. The portuguese princess’s complexion was tanner than the flawless porcelain shade that Elizabeth Woodville had drawn Edward in with and her eyes was brown. Her nose resembled a hawk’s beak, but the softness of her mouth rounded it out and gave her an impression of strength that Anne herself had lacked all her life. She was taller than Anne and stockier too. That made her lips twitch, Richard had always been content with having a shorter wife compared to his tall family. 

Looking at her former husband she found that his gaze had locked with his new wife and for a moment they both react the same way. A slight widening of the eyes and their lips parting briefly when they saw each other’s faces. Something fractures in Anne’s spectre and suddenly the water feels ice cold at her feet even if she’s no more solid than air now. For an insane moment Anne wants to grab him and drag him down in the freezing water with her so that his aching lungs will fight for breath the same hers did that very spring. “You said you would always be faithful to me” she wants to scream at Richard. “I am your only wife and queen”. Anne fell to her knees at the shore and wept hot angry tears “I bore your son” she whispered to the December air and the small lapping waves that moved through her ghostly self. 

“Is this all I am now? A ghost undone by grief?” For a moment Anne was alone on the shoreline and in the next Anne of Bohemia is kneeling beside her in the shallow water. Anne says nothing and leans against the neck of Richard the second’s beloved consort and cries. Queen Anne wraps her arms around her and holds her like a mother does a child. Anne has missed being held for so long and she has too much pride to ask for it, Anne of Bohemia on the other hand seems to give freely of herself to anyone who needs it. It’s little wonder that her Richard fell to pieces at her death. Some cold jealous part of Anne Neville almost wants history to repeat itself, for her own Richard to go mad with grief. No one will ever be able to say that Richard of Gloucester did not love the daughter of Warwick then. 

At the dock king Richard reaches his hand out to Joanna of Portugal and when she takes it a world brightened by the early morning’s light in that winter begins to move once more.


	4. Joanna of Portugal is the queen of everything

June 1486, Westminster Abbey

Westminster Abbey is rather impressive for a land whose architecture leans towards heavy and grey, unlike the warm sandstone and delicate stucco of her native Portugal, Joanna observes. Her ladies follow her from a slight distance as she wanders around the chapels. They are both english and portuguese, an aid for their foreign queen to understand the customs and language of her new home. “My English is improving, but not fast enough” Joanna thought ruefully before shaking of the prickling of irritation. There were other duties of a queen than speaking flawless english and she had already started to fulfil one of them.  
The baby in her belly had not started to kick yet but Joanna could feel it’s movements sometimes. She had not expected to conceive so soon, not expected to conceive at all and had not believed the royal midwives when they told her of it. “I’m thirty-four years old, my childbearing years should be coming to an end, not signify the beginning of my life!” After she had told her husband of that he has replied that his brother’s Woodville queen had born half a dozen babies after thirty, which had reassured Joanna for a while. She might have been more confident if Richard had not almost collapsed when she gave him the news. Francis Lovell, always reliable had helped the king to an armchair and a goblet of wine later. “It’s a bad habit of giving the king a heart attack before his heir is born” Joanna had grumbled to her ladies when retiring to her bedchamber that night. The statement got them to giggle, but it was Anna Lovell who sombrely told her the story of the past two years.  
“If my reign had been marked with two missing princes, a treacherous duke, my only heir dying and the slow demise of the queen I would have to sit down to if my new spinster wife gave me hope for a son so soon. Rumours of a marriage with my bastard niece, poisoning my wife and an invasion by late summer to top of that.” thought Joanna grimly as she came to stop at a tomb in the Abbey. The chapel of St George, England’s patron saint. “Santa Jorge” Joanna said quietly and gazed along the tombs. The one that she looked for was near the altar, the armour and sword of Edward IV of England still hung on the gates of her late brother in law. Between them a surcoat of crimson velvet glisted with rubies and gold. Looking at the armour she could assert that the height far exceeded her husbands. One of Joanna’s ladies came to stand at her elbow “The late king must have been as tall as your royal brother, minha senhora.” Joanna’s lips twitched “Do you think they should have enjoyed each other’s company then, Maria?” Maria gives a discreet giggle, covered in her sleeve. Joanna is happy that she came with her, she could always lift her moods.  
It’s late noon, Joanna realises, and she should return to court. The delegation from Burgundy will be arriving in three days and there is plenty of work to do before that. King Richard is hoping for better news from his sister and archduke Maximilian now that the 300 english archers had been dispatched to aid the turbulent duchy. Joanna to has connections to Burgundy, the late duchess Isabella was her aunt. Her duty goes far beyond bearing heirs to the throne and mending her husband’s linens. Even if she is proud to do that too.  
The death of the young duchess Marie had been a disaster for Burgundy. The archduke was trying to keep the duchy to fall apart completely and Margaret of York safeguarded the young Philip. The alliance was stronger now thanks to the french king’s age and his older sister keep peace. Joanna intended to do what she could to help her sister in law. The issue of Brittany required her and the kings attention as well, Richard had not forgotten duke Francis sheltering of Henry Tudor and his uncle, nor the treasury that Edward Woodville had smuggled there. The young heiress Anne would make an excellent bride for the widowed Maximilian.  
There is a grave here in Westminster Abbey that she wants to see, Joanna realised with a jolt. She gestures for Anna Lovell to come closer. “Madam?” Anna asks, is there something you need? Joanna’s request seems to confuse her but she none the less guides her to the chapel of Edward the Confessor. The joint tomb of Richard the second and Anne of Bohemia are draped in shadows, the gilded sunlight’s coming to shine on the foot of the stone.  
A sudden chill passes through Joanna. Despite the linen kirtle over her underdress and the green brocade gown she feels cold when approaching the graves. “Is it the spectres of dead Lancastrians that taunts me? Are they calling me treacherous?” Joanna knows her dynasty’s story well. John of Gaunt’s daughter Philippa who wedded the bastard king of Portugal, an illustrious generation of infantes, inclita gerecao, who spread like the ivy. Her roots are Lancastrian, her Yorkist husband knows that, choose Joanna as queen for that.  
The last of the house of Lancaster is destroyed now, the bastard Tudor’s head is still impaled on a pike over the London bridge alongside his uncle and the Stanleys. Joanna remains as in her own way, the last of the Lancastrian queens. Margaret Beaufort is locked in a convent; the bulk of her lands are in Joanna’s hands now. It’s an ironic dower that the king gave her. But Elizabeth Woodville is still dowager queen, even if the woman is completely powerless and her daughters cannot be paupers. Catherine of York has expressed an interest of becoming one of Joanna’s ladies to her mother’s anger, little Bridget is intended for church and an abbess post. Anne has already been chosen as the bride for Norfolk’s heir. The daughters of Edward IV will not pose a problem for Joanna’s unborn child.  
Richard of Bordeaux lies next to his Anne in the chapel. Good queen Anne, dead far too young and her husband who lost everything after that. The chills are becoming colder, did not the victorious Henry wed a Joanna after taking the throne? “This could have come true again. If the earl of Northumberland had been too late, if Thomas Stanley’s men had been luckier.” There would have been no crown for Joanna, no baby for king Richard. She knows that Henry Tudor would not have buried Anne Neville’s husband in Westminster Abbey, not with such a thin claim on the throne.  
The sudden hand of Maria on her shoulder makes Joanna startle. “Minha senhora? Are you well? You went very pale.” The queen takes a deep breath, composes herself and nods. “We should return to the palace of Westminster now.” Maria nods and calls to her other attendants. Joanna crosses herself before the tomb and leaves the chapel. There will be no Henry to take the crown from her son, no Redmore Plain to nearly kill him.  
God willing, there shall be a king Richard the fourth and the sun of York shall shine in glory. 

But for now, there is a coming delegation to welcome, chambers to prepare, banquets to arrange and missives from the Scottish border to read. The king and his forces should be arriving in a day or two as well. Joanna had no illusions of leisure in her queenship, Richard had not wanted a delicate goose to rule beside him.  
There is glory in this too, even if her bridegroom is not Christ and she has time for her prayers in the chapel in the castle that Richard had been built for her when she arrived. It touched her more than his gift of jewelry and fine cloth had done, splendid as they had been.  
Outside the Abbey her carriage awaits her, much to her frustration she has not been allowed to ride after she told her husband she was with child. The annoyance had faded with a while and perhaps the carriage was more appropriate for a pregnant queen to an heirless king. Joanna knows that most of the country is praying for a prince of Wales and so does the king. Right now, she can deal with a carriage. There are more important matters to be dealt with after all.


	5. There is a precious york baby here, just so you know

October 24 Sheen Palace 1486

 

The contractions are coming very fast now. Queen Joanna of England has been in labour since the previous morning, nearly twenty hours have passed since her water broke. Maria is wiping Joanna’s face with a linen cloth dipped in herb-scented water, the wisps of Rosemary quickens the queens weary mind. “My lady, it’s time to push now.” The midwives have been attending the birth of Elizabeth Woodville’s children, their hands are as safe as it can get. Joanna takes several deep breaths, pushes and repeat it all over again. The windows are half open to get fresh air into the chamber, the cosy chamber had turned stifling a few hours ago. Joanna’s moorish physicians had advised on fruit, bread and light wine to help her keep her strength up, but she was getting exhausted now. “The head! The head is almost out!” one midwife cries out. Joanna grits her teeth, takes a new sip of the pale crisp wine and pushes once more. 

She loses track of time during the labour. The sunlight starts to filter through the coloured glass window, blue, red and green spots dances on the bed beside her and Maria’s hand is steady by the birthing chair. A midwife tells her something, but Joanna’s english understanding fails her right then. It’s Maria who leans in and says that the baby is almost fully out. It just needs another push. The queen of England draws air into her lungs and delivers the baby with a final roar. 

Joanna comes to a little while later. Maria is once more wiping the wet cloth over her face and neck and by her feet there is small, but strong cries coming from a midwife’s arms. “Is it alive?” she asks dazed, despite the sound. Perhaps she’s just hallucinating. The bundle is carefully handed to Maria who holds it like it’s the body of Christ himself. “Minha senhora, my lady…Joana, look, look.” The baby is big for a newborn, red and wrinkled. It’s squirming in Maria’s grip, who then gently places it in her mistress’s arms. 

Joanna has no trouble translating the look on the midwives faces, or of the other attendants in the chamber. She doesn’t need to understand english to know what the words mean. “I have a son” she says in a daze, staring at the baby’s face who has calmed his theatrics and is staring right back at her. Like a sleepwalker she touches his tiny hand and her thumb is promptly grabbed by him. “It’s my son” Joanna says like it needs clarification to the others. Her physicians are helping her up, to flop down on the bed and one lady is putting several pillows behind her back to prop her up. She’s still cradling her baby who keeps exploring her face and his free hand has grabbed a lock of her hair.  
Without meaning it, she shifts so that he can find a swollen breast to nurse from. Maria snaps at one of the midwives who exclaim that it’s the wet-nurse’s job to do that, not the queen’s. The baby feeds calmly until he falls asleep and Joana dabs away the milky drool from his chin. The chamber is emptier now. Maria tells her Anna Lovell has gone to inform the king of his son’s birth and somehow the afterbirth has already been delivered and taken care of.  
Right now, Joanna’s world is limited to the baby sleeping on her chest with Maria hovering on the edges. There is a son for the king, an heir for the throne and god willing hope for the future. And outside the castle windows, the glorious sunne in splendour proclaims the new age to come.


	6. Love is in the air (and the duenna is a piece of shit)

Sheen palace december 1501 

Catherine has never seen snow like this before. Heavy white flakes fell from the cloudy sky to melt on her clothes, hair and face. Since no one was watching she stuck her tongue out to catch one, the little chill felt pleasantly fresh. She’s graceful for her warm, fur lined gowns and the practical boots to protect her from the cold. Queen Joanna had surveyed her wardrobe and promptly ordered much more warmer clothes, letting Catherine know that it was necessary to do so, having learned from experiment herself sixteen years ago. England in winter was colder than the plains of Castile had been at her birth in Alcala de Hernares. Her duenna Elvira had grumbled at the queen’s order, stating that she oversaw the infanta, not the portuguese born queen. Joanna had looked Elvira in the eyes and told her she knew her country better than her and in England Joanna could and would overrule her if she must. 

“Until my husband returns to England, I rule in his place. He placed the responsibility for the princess of Wales to me. His grace will not accept my authority being questioned, not even by you, donna Elvira and neither will I.”  
Elvira had been left gobsmacked after that. But Catherine and her ladies had been provided with new winter garments much to their satisfaction. Unfortunatly the matter of clothing had not been the only thing her duenna had disliked from Catherine’s new family. The king’s absence had rankled worse with Elvira than Catherine herself, whose indignation had vanished after her young husband’s explanations of the importance with Brittany. The company of the queen and her new siblings-in law had made more than up for that for Catherine. And of course, prince Richard himself. Duenna Elvira had not been late with finding faults with Catherine’s new husband, from his accented Castilian to the freckles on his nose and cheeks. And of course, their unconsummated wedding night. 

The unstained bridal sheets had drawn Duenna Elvira’s temper as sure as a Castilian bull to a red banner and she had launched a tirade about the prince of wales. It had included several nasty comments about everything from his health “A weak incapable boy!” to his upbringing “With a portuguese bitch for a mother, it’s no wonder!” to king Richard himself “No wonder his son died, probably as weak as his brother!” She had not uttered those words in Queen Joanna’s presence, but Catherine had the feeling her mother-in law knew of it. Her ladies had already started a bet about how long Elvira would remain in her household. Maria de Salinas had put her down for getting shipped back to Castile in less than a year, the other’s two.  
Catherine had the feeling Elvira had already written to her royal parents about the wedding nights and the other nights that she had spent with her husband. What her mother would say about not doing her marital duty made anxiety gnaw in her stomach. Her and Richard spent their nights together debating, exchanging stories, learning the customs of country and court and shyly getting intimidate with each other. They were getting there, but it was slow road. To slow for duenna Elvira.  
Laughter drew Catherine out of her thoughts and she looked over the snow-covered grounds. Richard was lifting little Joanna and spun her up in the air, the seven-year-old shrieking with joy and her little dogs rumbled in the snow. It wasn’t a very dignified behavior for a princess, Catherine herself could not recall such flimsy behavior from her own childhood, even if it has been joyful too. But it was so utterly charming that she laughed despite herself. 

Richard turned his head towards her at the sound and put his sister down on the ground, taking long strides towards her. The smile on his face makes Catherine’s cheeks flush pink; perhaps she can blame it on the cold weather. She takes his outreached hands when he reaches her and suddenly she’s pulled close enough to feel his breath on her face.  
There is a warmth that she doesn’t want to figure out at his body so close to hers, the feeling of her heart jumping like a startled bird. There is a dark auburn curl flopping in his eyes and his cheeks are flush from the winter; she tucks the stray hair back under his fur lined winter hat on sheer impulse, behind her Maria de Salinas hides a giggle in her gloves. Catherine ignores that and lets Richard lead her into the park when he says “Come mi senora, let’s take a walk together.”, linking her arms with his. His two dogs, both furry large terriers, comes to greet her. She has won over his dogs rather quickly, much to her joy and they butt her legs merrily. Richard gives her their sturdy play stick and Catherine hurls it as far as she can for the dogs to chase.  
Princess Joanna’s governess comes out on their departure and Catherine is relived that the merry child can keep playing even after her older brother’s leaving. “My sister can be so childish sometimes, but she loves winter and my lady mother lets her play when she has time. My lord father always say that it’s good to be merry once in a while.” The frozen river stretches along the side of Sheen and goes on for what seems to be forever, they walk closer to the shoreline. Catherine inhales the fresh air, tasting the crispness, lets the smoke billow from her lips. Beside her Richard is trying to exhale rings, never getting it right. Their shared silliness makes them both giggle like children after a while. “I never expected to be able to giggle with my husband” Catherine tells him after a while. Richard stops and rests his other hand on her waist and asks “What did you expect then, my lady?”  
She doesn’t know how to answer that, to put the duty that her entire life had been installed in her with simple words. Governing, dancing, warfare, diplomacy, she can do all that. Giggling with her husband on the bank of a frozen river had not been learned by her tutors. The warmth in her belly when Richard smiled had not been taught, that her wedding night should be spend laughing, sipping mulled wine and eating sweetmeats was strange territory. 

“Something else.” In the end, it was the only answer that made sense to say.  
“Then let’s make it something else then, Catalina. You and I.” Richard says and kisses her gently on the forehead. On sheer impulse Catherine brings up her hand to tilt his head down to her lips and settles for a proper kiss, their noses bumping into each other. Kissing has been no problem during their nights, from their rather chaste ones at first to more passionate ones later. Right now, on the frozen banks of Sheen it’s the latter and Catherine gleefully damns propriety in favor of the burning warmth coursing through her body. 

Here there is no nasty duennas or dutiful protocols to obey and her two ladies are not going to protest, Catherine knows that Maria has a large smirk on her face, even without looking. Right now, there is only a Spanish girl dressed in warm red velvet, practical snow boots and an English prince with a fur hat and two hearts beating next to each other and Catherine is the only girl in the entire Christendom. At least for a while.


End file.
